LIGHT THREADS
by
GayLinda Gardner
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Camel Press on Smashwords
Light Threads
Copyright © 2010 by GayLinda Gardner
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Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.camelpress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Copyright © 2010 by GayLinda Gardner.
ISBN: 978-1-60381-801-8 (ePub)
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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* * * * * *
For Carol Gates,
my mother
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Acknowledgements
Along the way, these people made a difference. It’s the kind of debt you can’t repay.
Loving thanks to Brent Whiting, my husband. He backed me, even as we faced a life overflowing with demands. He stood behind me when it was incredibly difficult to do so.
Thanks to Carol Gates, my 24/7/365 copyeditor, and Mother, for walking the whole journey with me. “Hurry up!” she said, “before it happens.” She’s been holding her breath for the first copies to come off the press, and has turned quite blue in the waiting.
Thanks in memory to Dick Pettinger who shortened the title before he went on to other dimensions. He didn’t get to see it in print.
Heartfelt gratitude to Gloria Wildeman, my sister, who piped up again and again as she reviewed early drafts, “You did good.” It kept me going.
Theresa Dahl, my favorite recruiter, read the entire manuscript in a weekend. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me. Thanks!
I especially appreciate Mike Parke, who gave critical insights into the weave of the storyline – or lack thereof. His career in page design came to bear on every page of the book. I’m grateful he is in my life.
Many thanks to Renee Longstreet for taking time away from her own publication deadlines for a critique. She offered hope, suggesting that I might actually be able to quit my day job - a thing she did not often say to new authors. The bright flash from your participation sustained me through the shadowy path of publication.
I appreciate the help of Susan Sullivan, librarian and book reviewer. She bought one of the first hand-made books and told me to keep writing. It warmed me to the bone.
Special thanks to Dr. Wanda Roberton, for her advice on human behavior during ultimate grief. She admitted that she read the book only because she’d said she would, but loved it just the same. She recommended one of the scenes in Denver, too. Thanks Dr. Wanda!
Hearty thanks to Dr. Linda Edgar, an avid reader and soon-to-be author. Her reference to a book with similar story concepts was a profoundly helpful gesture – however simple it seemed at the time.
Hooray, and thanks to my buddy Crystal Carter. Before the first hand-bound copies were available, she left individualChapters hither and yon in her home, reading a bit as the mood suited. Each part stood alone as a momentary diversion.
I’m grateful to Alima Pat Hamilton, founder of the Northwest School of Healing, who has – so far – taught dozens of us to see the fabric of timespace – a gift beyond measure.
Thanks to Barbara Whiting, my newest sister-in-law. I promise to send you a signed copy produced by print production professionals. Maybe those hand-made books will be valuable some day!
Hearty thanks to Robert Chaney, author of “Akashic Records”, who taught us all how to access those Records from which the “thread” of “Thin Threads” is drawn.
I’m grateful to Doug Dykstra, of Bridging the Gap for an outstanding final edit.
Special thanks to Paul Beidler of Camel Press for the magic he did bringing Light Threads into the light.
Finally, thanks to the Book Publishers Northwest, Bang Printing, and Pacific Northwest booksellers Association as sponsors of the seminar, “New Business of Books: 2007 and Beyond”. Profound insights I carried away from that event are directly responsible for the paper you hold in your hand this very moment. I won’t forget it.
I was touched deeply, frequently and repeatedly by the casual participation of the people in my life. I’m in their debt as well.
I would not have had the heart to carry on alone.
Prologue
Life as she knew it was over. The road in front darted between fields, bending over the edge of the world exactly as it did the day she was born. Distant silos speared up from swaying wheat, monuments to tradition. At 13, Cindy Stradford didn’t think about change. But she thought herself normal, too.
Cindy loved Nebraska summers. The heat gave cause to cool off the kids. She hunted them, stalked them from bush to bush, then blasted her prey with the garden hose. She wiled away hundreds of afternoons in much the same way, watching her siblings while Mom ran errands. Today, she was tending to Ethan.
She’d made all the neighborhood kids into almost-siblings, but he was her favorite. She wished all the more for a little brother of her very own, when he mangled a new word and made her laugh. As the Pied Piper of little people, she loved every one of them. Well, almost.
The one exception was the brat who tip-toed up from behind, bombed her point-blank and ran. Cindy’s bones shuddered as an icy-water balloon exploded at her neck, cascaded down her back and filled her sneakers. She ground her teeth, white-knuckled the hose and whirled.
The herd scattered, filling the air with squeals of terrified delight. She scanned the group, zoomed in on Brad Michaels just as he tripped and fell over his own feet. In two long strides, she was on him and victory was sweet. She hosed him head to foot while he wriggled, laughed, sputtered. Grass became mud.
Triumph in her eyes, with Ethan at her back, the door to change opened. Ethan wailed with laughter, waving his arms as he toddled across the lawn and into the road.
Tires screeched and Cindy spun toward the sound in time to see Ethan bounce like a beach ball off the swerving motorcycle. Her scream echoed in her mind, “Ethan, no!” as she dropped the hose and ran.
Her steps faltered. Pain shot through her head as he landed on his, crumpling into a heap. He’s not crying! Why isn’t he crying? Cindy squeezed her palms to her temples and stared down at him. Blood covered one closed eye, oozing from a raw gash across his forehead. She could see his life flowing over the ground.
“No, no…no!” She moved without thought, knelt and cradled him, curling around his limp body. “Ethan,” she whispered against his hair, squeezing her eyes shut tight, refusing the tears, and softly muttered, “…no...” Blood oozed through her fingers and down her arm, dripped from her elbow. The red seeped between the rocks and pooled on the gravel road.
Guilt swallowed her. I’ve killed him, as surely as if I’d hefted a rock and bashed his head. He’d been my responsibility and I turned my back. His little body - soft, fragile - my brother… my obligation, my fault! She couldn’t breathe. Love, more than her heart could hold, welled up and overflowed its bounds, spilling down her arms and tingling her palms.
With all she was, she needed him to be healthy and whole, a need so intense it obliterated sensations—even the rising heat in her hands. No one could say how long she sat that way, consumed by guilt. She finally drew one forced breath, lost the battle with the tears and sobbed into his hair.
The wail of sirens fell on deaf ears as she thought of his laughter.
She remembered his chubby legs shuddering as he trundled over the uneven grass to throw himself into her arms, eyes radiant with discovery and innocence and magic. She winced as the image tore her heart.
He can’t die. I simply won’t allow it!
Time spun on, with each moment neither returning nor leading to another.
Her pulse beat thick in her ears. She didn’t hear the neighbors gather or see the flashing lights. Sweat slicked her palms as emergency crews pressed in, unsure how to pry the child from her.
Gingerly, a man’s hand rested on her wrist, then jerked away. He stared at his fingers, expecting an explanation for the burning heat of his skin.
The flow of blood slowed, but she didn’t notice, nor did she feel the subtle movement of Ethan’s scalp, slippery and swollen, as it shifted under her palm.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the scalp grew thick, strong, as the edges of the gash pulled taught until they spanned the gap between. Cindy’s bloody, sweaty palm remained hidden and no one noticed the ambient glow of change as it wafted through air thick with tension. She didn’t notice it either, amid the motionless crowd, more silent than night. Steadily, the edges of Ethan’s injury joined, then smoothly sealed under her palm, leaving a thin, jagged line across the angry red skin.
Heat pulsed in her hands. Ethan’s blazing-red scalp gave way to rosy pink, then to a natural, healthy glow. Beneath her hand, his skin even lost the jagged line, leaving behind no trace of injury. None at all ...
When the whispers rippled through the crowd, the sound didn’t penetrate the raspy breath she forced in with each sob. All her will was aimed at controlling the tremors of her arms. But when Ethan wriggled and squirmed against her fierce grip, she gasped once and swiped madly at her eyes, now open wide. Deliberately, she pushed him away and stared down, blinked hard.
His head lolled back, then side to side. Wide questioning eyes peered up as he stretched a pudgy finger to stab a tear poised on her chin. Gingerly, she tilted his head, disbelieving as she probed through the sticky hair in search of the bloody gash. When a quick search showed nothing, she pried harder, separating clumps of matted hair into smaller divisions for a more careful study. Still nothing.
Her eyes glazed over during yet another thorough scan. Then she froze, tilted her head and thought, that’s impossible, and felt herself slide through to the other side of change.
“This can’t be happening,” she blurted out, holding up her own fingers, spreading them wide and frowning at the sticky, darkening blood. “I don’t believe it...” her words trailed off.
That’s when she finally noticed the medic and the cop who knelt in front of her. They met her slack-jawed gaze with their own bewilderment, gave each other a wary glance, stood up and froze, numb as statues.
A sudden breeze lifted Cindy’s hair in the crackling silence and the light dimmed in a false dusk brought on by hulking thunderheads. A few, fat raindrops began to fall, pelting the world—the onset of a downpour, and immediately the air was filled with the smell of wet pavement.
Change gilded the rain with a shimmer of magic as it continued to pulse over the air, unpredictable, unexplainable, undeniable. For a long time, no one moved, no one spoke.
Beneath conscious thought, Cindy deferred to the change, aware her life would never be the same again. Absently, she tilted her head back, let the rain splash her face and wondered what fate would offer in its place. Lightening struck a tree a half mile down the road. Heads turned and the crowd shifted.
Brad Michaels jostled his way to the front of the crowd; thrust a shaky arm at Cindy, just as the sky burst open. He screeched, “Freak!” Then he ran ...
Chapter 1
Years later, with her eyes as empty as her gas tank, Cindy sized up the dingy gas station, yanked the nozzle out of the machine, and stuffed it into the car. An Oklahoma gas station, she thought numbly, is so much like any other in Texas or Timbuktu. Her reserves were drained. I pushed myself to drive all night—for what? she asked, pulling back the hair that hung over her eyes. To pump gas at dawn in the middle of nowhere? Absently, she tucked straggling hair behind one ear. Through the sticky haze of exhaustion she couldn’t even recall why she’d left Seattle in such a huff.
As she wilted against the SUV, her head settled against its roof and her long pale hair feathered over the metal. Her blue eyes drifted shut as the mechanical grind of the gas pump faded into the background. She let the scent of unleaded carry her back to the last time gas fumes had filled her world. In the dim airport lights, she’d studied the Renton, Washington airport and held up her hand against wind-blown grit.
On the far side of the runway, the lighted windsock had quivered a day-glow orange. As she peered at it through the dark, she recognized her Dad’s voice come through the portable radio she held.
“Renton Tower, November two zero two kilo tango, five miles to the south—inbound for landing with Sierra.”
“Still sounds like a kazoo,” she thought, shaking her head slowly.
“November two zero two kilo tango, make left traffic for runway one five.” The voice from the tower never failed to intimidate, she mused, as she yearned for her own exchange, pilot to tower—riddled with static, and the gibberish of radio-speak. Why couldn’t life be simple, like it was when her dad had taught her to fly, two hours, day in and day out, paving a path to the world of flight. She pressed the heel of her hand to her heart as it throbbed painfully, aching for those days.
The tower voice snapped her back, “two kilo tango, cleared to land.” As she listened, the wind lifted her hair away, and the urge to fly struck her like a physical blow. Why had she moved so far away?
“Cleared to land”—the tower words echoed in her Dad’s voice.
Her eyes stung. She scrubbed at them: “they’ll be on the ground in minutes,” she thought, rubbing her arms against the prickle as the hairs stood on end. “It’s only the wind,” she lied.
Hair whipped hair against her eyes, then snapped away again. Her brow creased as she imagined the frantic bounce of the wings in the twitchy wind.
Again, her father’s voice tugged her heartstrings: “two kilo tango, tower, can we get a wind check?”
“Two kilo tango, wind, 105 at 25, gusting to 35.” The tower voice had an edge of warning she had only heard once before, on her first solo flight. She’d never forget the icy terror of weighing the risks by herself.
“Damn,” her eyes went wide. “Gusting right across the runway’s the worst.”
Suddenly the headlights come alive as the plane lines up with the runway.
Leaning on a chain-link fence in the lee of a parked Cessna, she watched the plane take shape in the glow of its own landing lights, sleek and graceful. The wings flapped and fought the wind. She pushed away from the fence.
“Man, he’s moving fast”—she spit out the words. “I’ll never get used to the look of a plane crabbing in a crosswind,” she thought, though she’d experienced the same maneuver—as a co-pilot—more times than she cared to recall. Planes just shouldn’t move through the air sideways, like crabs on a sandy beach. It looked, well, wrong. Lifting her chin, she put her optimistic pilot in charge and sucked in a breath.
As a young pilot, she’d have headed for another field, one without the deadly crosswind. Her dad, as a skilled instructor, would have backed her decision. But her dad could do it. Air Force training and 30 years of flying gave him an undeniable edge. She nodded once, convincing herself he’d be fine—had to be!
This flight was special, in a plane that had had its maiden flight only six months before. She imagined her parents taking that long step from the cockpit onto a wing, then another long step to the tarmac, ready for the bear hug she held in reserve. A slow grin spread as she admired the faint luminous curve of the fuselage, smooth, futuristic, fast. They had to be proud.
Exactly as her parents had dreamed, she realized—lines of an angel, power of a jet. It brought to mind the design she’d seen on their garage. They’d labored over their baby every spare minute for years.
“Incredible,” she muttered with a slow shake of her head. “That pile of parts is airborne”—and tonight they’d land just south of Seattle, she grinned, on their first visit to her new home. She let out a nervous half-laugh. Nothing could match the sparks of a reunion or touch the fun they’d share in her new life. She’d also been promised a ride in their new toy.
Absently, she toed the loose gravel as she meandered the length of the fence, her eyes never leaving the wobbling plane. The wings jerked. She forced her fists deeper into her pockets.
“Easy does it,” she whispered, “altitude’s good, decent smooth…they’re fine.” Turning, she fisted her hands, scuffed back the other way. “Bet he’s still doing ninety knots.” She kicked at the fence.
“He has to land fast, I know that,” she argued, pressing her fists hard against the bottom of her pockets.
One wheel brushed the runway, and the windsock caught her eye. It thrashed on a blast of wind, then sagged—limp as laundry. In a blink, it flapped straight out, again, and spun ninety degrees. From the corner of her eye, she saw the near wing of the little plane fall like a rock. In the next heartbeat, it shot for the sky.
Her heart stopped as she gripped the fence, then flinched when one wingtip crunched into the ground.
Change hummed in her ears, an unwelcome pulse in an opened doorway.
A strangled sound came from Cindy’s throat, echoing in her mind as if it came from far away where every pilot’s nightmare is born.
The lifted wingtip pulled the plane up on its edge, exposing the white underbelly, vulnerable and gleaming in the glow of the runway lights. Then, momentum spun the plane into a cartwheel, still moving at ninety knots.
One fast pivot hurled the nose into the pavement. Cindy yanked her hand from the fence, covered her mouth when the propeller snapped like a twig and sent the engine into screams of shredding metal.
The cartwheel made a quarter turn, tore off half a wing and opened the fuel tanks, easy as cracked eggs. Fuel gushed from the jagged end, spitting glints of danger into the wind.
As her internal optimist blared, she mumbled, “this has to be a good landing—one you can walk away from.” He can still pull it out, she thought. Oh God, let this be a good landing. She drew in a ragged breath, blinking at tears.
Another quarter spin brought the tail to the ground. Her vision blurred as it snapped off like a toothpick and sent half the fuselage careening into the dark. It shattered three runway lights before it disappeared. When the other wing hit the ground, it put out the last onboard light and left a ghostly silhouette spinning along the runway lights. Cindy fisted her hands in her windblown hair and held them there, still as death. This can’t be happening.
Gushing fuel vaporized, filling the night. She’d barely had the thought—Fire! She shook her head violently and moved toward the plane. “No!” Crackling sparks spewed from the cockpit in a blue shower. She clutched a hand to her mouth.
The night came alive. Fire exploded in the dark, forming a wall of flame that swept the runway in the wake of the plane, devouring the ground.
She didn’t notice the wail of sirens that pierced the night.
The spinning plane slowed, and the jagged tail speared the ground. Minutes stretched to the breaking point as it wavered in the wind, deciding which way to fall. Cindy stumbled backward, hidden in the shelter of the fence and forced a shuddering breath through clenched teeth, “Wheels first!” She pleaded. “Come on, you can do it!”
She gripped the fence to steady herself against a wave of dizziness. Slowly, the sleek plane crumpled and fell. Through the flames, she couldn’t make out the futuristic sweep of curves as it settled to perfect stillness, wheels up.
The wail of sirens, crash of the windshield, and whoosh of fires echoed off the metal buildings all around. Dense smoke billowed, obliterating her view of the wreck, then suddenly exposed it on a gust of wind. Cindy gasped, clutched at her throat.
“Oh no! No! No! Please? This isn’t real. We’re going flying.” She took one faltering step toward the runway, instinctively stretching an arm toward the plane. She fought desperately to reach in and pull them out, to hold them like she’d held Ethan, to fix them. She could do it, if only she could get to them. She would do it, take the risk of getting caught fixing them. If only ...
With a quick change in the wind, she was swallowed by smoke. “She’s ...” Cindy choked, stumbled backward, groped blindly for the fence, “Mom! You’re wearing your new shoes,” she thrust both hands through the fence, “Red shoes.” She coughed and yanked the wall of chain into a wild clanking as she argued with the night.
“We’re all going to a movie! This can’t happen,” she jammed her shoulder against the cold mesh.
“They have to walk away.” Turning her head slowly, she peered at the passenger door, not really wanting to see inside.
“Mom, are you coming out now?” she whispered, straining to catch the slightest motion. The mangled door caught the firelight and pulsed red in an eerie, crumpled pattern. The window, framed by jagged teeth, gaped at her like the mouth of a cave.
A shower of darts sputtered from the raw end of the wing, carrying flames into the dark. The once-graceful curve of the roof had crumpled against the cockpit, flattened the windshield.
“There’s nothing left,” she mumbled. Her whole world tilted at the meaning of her own words, “Nothing at all.” Change iced her blood as the truth began to sink in.
Optimist or not, she could not sugarcoat this. Her head throbbed, pulsing in time with the stabbing pain in her heart. No one would walk away from this landing.
Despair swamped her. She couldn’t fix them, not even with her special, secret ways. No one could. She crumpled to the ground and sobbed.
A steady, annoying beep, beep, beep from the gas pump wrenched Cindy back to Oklahoma, where the display demanded an answer— “Receipt?” Heart throbbing, adrenaline pumping, she turned to the blurry, noisy machine, swiped at her eyes, straightened her spine and looked over the dingy white-on-white gas station. It was damp and deserted.
Beside the battered gas pump, a Geranium caught her eye where it stabbed through sand and cigarette butts. Limp, brown branches tipped against the metal hollow in the top of the garbage can.
Casually, she again scanned the massive windows of the little store, but saw no one watching. Just to be sure, she stepped between the plant and the store, drew one deep breath, and reached out, steadying her hands on either side of the plant. Filled with a bone-deep helpless ache to fix her parents, she held the longing in her hands and closed her eyes. Sweat beaded on her palms and her tears dried on her cheeks as they flushed with heat. Too late to fix mom and dad, they were gone, but she’d fix this plant, before it died, too.
The sliver of sun shimmered through a cloud break onto a pool of dew spilled from a crumpled Geranium leaf. Fuzzy new leaves spread from a blob to the intricate pointy shape of full-grown leaves. A family of warblers collected on the gas pump. They might have been complaining about the cost of gasoline, for all Cindy noticed. Her mind held only the dying plant.
With a long sigh, she opened her eyes, blinked against tears she hadn’t realized were there, and an easy smile stretched across her face. The air was now spiced with the scent of Geranium leaves, packed together and obliterating sand and cigarettes. A pair of blue butterflies perched on a new bloom.
She sighed again, straining for calm that remained just out of reach. The plant thrived. Mom and dad didn’t.
“Remember,” she coached herself, as her mom would have done, “we’re on a blue planet, third from the sun, on the northern continent, near…hmmm… the gas pump with the huge Geranium.” Cindy chuckled to hear her mom’s words play in her head.
“From that perspective,” she swung out an arm through the air, encompassing everything, “out past the sun,” her throat scratched, “this is no big deal.” She let her arm drop: “it’s all in your perspective.”
The sun disappeared, sending a chill up her back. Her heart throbbed painfully—she hadn’t seen a familiar face in a week. She was alone, and her reserves were emptied. Blindly, she folded her arms up against the roof of the SUV, buried her face in her sleeve and let the tears flow.
* * *
Later the same day, in Monterey, Josh stuck his thumbs in his back pockets and frowned at the growing shadows. He saw no mystery and no magic in the sunset that danced through the trees, but merely the start of another bout with despair.
Night after night, he strained to sleep, skin coated with edgy sweat, muscles wired for survival, and night after night, his dreams killed him. As the months scraped by, he grappled for escape, driven as a warrior in battle with himself.
First, the simple solutions: for weeks, he had drunk himself into a stupor, popping pills until he was numb and downing coffee until he shook. But still he dreamed. With more resolve—he stayed up at night, went to sleep early, slept over with friends. But the dreams haunted him as before. Urgently now, he chugged gallons of chamomile tea, ate chili at bedtime, ate nothing all day. When that had no effect, he became desperate, seeking out a hypnotist, a homeopath, and a healer. His days filled with dread of the night. Approaching panic, he’d written it all down, read it back, talked it out. But nothing changed. Even the long weeks of counseling made no difference.
Dread gnawed at his gut as he stood in the doorway and watched the shadows grow. Without thought, he squared his shoulders, confronting another night. There must be something he could do, something left to try.
He hammered a fist into his palm again and again. “Think! Think! Think!” Then he stopped, mid-swing, “Aha!” He had another idea— something he hadn’t tried before. A wicked grin spread over his face. “Exhaustion!” he nodded once, “it might work,” and launched into action.
As he laced his Reeboks, he made a list in his mind. I’ll run, and far. After that, I’ll lift weights—Gary’s are still in the garage. He strained to recall college gym classes, jumping jacks—what were those bending things called? he mused—squat-thrusts. Hell, I’ll jump up and down if I run out of named exercises, anything to keep moving. Ignoring the chilled air, he let the door slam behind him and ran for his life. Tonight, I’ll win.
When he’d jogged the five miles down to the bay, he scowled as Jimmy’s voice echoed in his brain: “I can’t keep up.” Josh could still hear the familiar wheezing in his kid brother’s voice. Asthma had nearly killed him a dozen times as they’d played together, but every time, Josh had run for help and saved Jimmy’s life.
“An airplane ... it hit the tower! Gotta get downstairs. No ... too many stairs. We’re all ...” The hiss of asthma wedged in between the words. “They’re bumping ... Too ... fast. Can’t ... breathe ...” A clatter rang in Josh’s ear. He’d screamed into the phone, “Jimmy! Jimmy, are you alright?” He heard the rumble of people racing for their lives.
Josh hated himself in that instant. He couldn’t save his kid brother this time. Hell, he couldn’t even help him.
His eyes stung. Josh blinked hard, stared down the pier and kept running. When he returned to the apartment, he still didn’t slow down, merely snagged weights from the adjacent garage and kept going. Frantically, he worked himself, ignoring pain and sweat, making his heart race until it hurt, then stretched until it slowed, all the while keeping his target—exhaustion—clearly in mind as he finally returned to his place.
The night crawled by as he watched David Letterman and Bill Cosby, and when PBS went off the air, he switched to the History Channel and watched The History of Sex – part five, then black and white movies.
Finally, at four a.m., with every muscle screaming, he slumped to the couch and with a long sigh, he closed his eyes and felt a grin spread. Seconds later, he was snoring.
The strained lines around his eyes and across his mouth fell away, leaving behind the promise of dreams. Wavy dark hair brushed one cheekbone and curled into the blue crewneck sweater. Long lashes and prominent brows framed his eyes. He knew they drew the ladies when he caught their eye, but he treaded carefully on that treacherous ground.
“…does that star spangled banner yet wave, o’re the land of the free…” a baritone voice boomed out of the TV as red, white and blue transformed couch, chair, and Josh into nameless lumps in the projected stars and stripes. Laid out like a corpse, he snored through the very last note.
* * *
Bob swam in circles, paralleling the perimeter of his glass bowl. When the rest of the room fell motionless, he remained diligently, nervously following his borders. The paneled walls fluttered in the crackle of broadcast static.
Then when the furnace rumbled to life in the garage, it sent shudders along the floor and up through the couch. Josh bolted upright from his dreams, eyes wide and vacant. Still with Morpheus in another world, he bared his teeth, swung and then flung himself over the coffee table. A swirl of pillows followed him as he turned the air blue with curses.
In the next instant, Bob rumbled, fin-over-fin, in a soaring spray from his bowl.
“Ugh…” Josh hit the floor and burst awake from his dreams, sweating, and shaking. Adrenaline pumped in his arms and hammered against the tips of his fingers. Dazed and wobbly, he propped himself up, rubbed his elbows and eyed the room warily. A glint caught his eye when he turned. Peering sidelong, he spotted the castle and banged a fist to his forehead. “Jeez, Bob, I’m sorry” he made a cradle with both hands, scooped Bob from the soggy carpet and set him gingerly back into the bowl and rose to replace the water.
“Goddamn dream!” He shuffled back from the sink. He clunked the bowl on the coffee table hard enough to slosh Bob from wall-to-wall. “It’s been months!” He picked up the pillows, tossed them willy-nilly along the overstuffed couch and lectured himself: “Get over it!”
Long past 9/11, no one he knew still suffered from it. Well, his Mom did. His Dad had taken a job in Australia to get her away, and they both hoped she could pull herself together in new surroundings, free from reminders and memories. He rubbed his hand across his heart and wondered when he’d see them again.
Absently, he opened a window and bent to pick up the pieces of Bob’s castle, then nestled the two halves together in his palm and considered how best to stick them back together. If he had glue, he could fix it so the break would be nearly invisible. Staring down at his backpack, the only things he hadn’t sold, and knew he hadn’t kept the glue.
With unsteady hands, he unhooked two heavy paper clips from the pack and straightened them out, more or less, then twisted their ends together. Gingerly, he wrapped them around the shiny green arches of the castle, then tucked the ends back under the wrapped length so Bob didn’t catch a fin on the end.
“Best I can do, little buddy,” he settled the castle in the bowl of water.
At a sudden twinge of hunger, he headed for the kitchen. The refrigerator creaked as he swung the door open, then the light winked out. “Damn!” Josh let out a long sigh, “have to get a bulb for that.” But he didn’t have money to waste on a fancy bulb, not just now.
One aged onion scented the room before he let the door close itself. With a shrug, he picked the last cup of noodle meals from the cupboard and turned on the hot water. He peeled back the lid and stuck the cup under the steaming spigot. After resting a spoon across the paper lid, he carried it to the coffee table and turned the TV to an all-night channel.
Leaning back on the couch, he propped up his feet and waited for the commercials to finish. Depression fell on him like an anvil.
He was flying low, dangerously low. If Gary’s parent’s hadn’t offered him this tiny space in their basement, he’d be living in a box by now. He’d expected tight times, anyone would in the early years of a pilot’s career. But, there should have been an updraft by now.
“It’s not getting better, Bob.” He glanced into the bowl. Overall, the world of aviation hadn’t hit an updraft, either.
“I had three students lined up.” He lifted his palms and shot a knowing look at Bob. “Remember?” They’d been through a lot together, “I was rolling.” He reached under the coffee table, pulled out a tiny shaker and sprinkled fish food into the bowl. Bob darted to the surface to nibble and to listen.
“When those guys flew into the twin towers, everything went to hell.” Josh held up a flat hand, flew an imaginary airplane into the palm of the other hand. “Kah Boom!” He let his arms fall uselessly. “They closed the airports,” his voice grew weak, “grounded all my flights.” his head lolled back against the couch, “and killed my pilot’s career before it got out of the damned hanger.”
Bob blinked. Seemed he’d heard it before.
Josh blinked in reply, slowly. Then again. On a third laborious blink, his eyelids stayed down, his focus dissolved and his mind drifted. The cottony cloud he leaned into was surround by hundreds more just as soft and surreal. A light breeze chilled his skin.
Minutes later, the furnace kicked in. The clouds shifted. The furnace noise became the rumble of the jet engines. In a single heartbeat, he had the yoke in his hands and rudder pedals at his feet. He was co-pilot.
Two massive glass buildings loomed ahead, one of them blocked the flight path. Automatically, he checked the airspeed. At this rate, they couldn’t veer aside in time. He sucked in a breath, eyes wide. They’d crash into the building, soon.
With terror slick in his throat, he gaped sidelong at the pilot, a small brown man with a twitch under one eye. Josh watched him remove his headset and begin to mumble in halting, foreign phrases.
He meant to kill everyone onboard, including himself.
Jolts of panic ran up his Josh’s arms. He wrenched to free his hands. The flesh on his wrists ripped and blood oozed over down his fingers, but it didn’t matter. He’d tried before, failed before. His jaws throbbed from grinding his teeth and he knew, could remember, somehow, what came next, as if he’d dreamed this dream and flown this flight a hundred times before. Sickened and hollow, he knew he wouldn’t change it this time, either.
The tower in front of them blotted out the rest of the sky, bringing a hive of tiny rooms into focus. Directly ahead, he saw a woman in a dark suit spin on one heel to face the window a split second before she gasped, tossed papers into a flurry and ran. A slim heartbeat later, the final explosion thundered in his head of the jet slamming the tower. Around him, the cockpit shattered and he wondered, who’s going to feed Bob?
He shot up from sleep, electric with renewed adrenaline. Bob swam slowly side to side and eyed Josh narrowly.
Dreaming twice in one night was new for him. Overloaded, his nerves jangled and his whole body shook violently. He crossed his legs and arms, shot a sideways look at Bob and struggled for calm.
“We’re alive, Bob.” He dragged a hand across his face as he stood up, then strode to the window and let the breeze cool his skin as he stared through the glass.
The woman in the dark suit flashed into his mind, vivid and real. His dream dripped into his mind, mingling with his waking world. As he recognized the blend, he sucked in a breath, stared down at the stack of newspapers. Even the waking world had shifted. He had no place to hide.
Suddenly, his control snapped and he grabbed an armload of newspapers. He heaved it across the space, filling the room with crumpled, flying paper. The rest of the pile cascaded slowly and buried three pairs of shoes, carelessly deserted by the door.
He shoved papers aside, grabbed a shoe and pitched it across the living room where it smacked the wall with a satisfying thud and bounced on the carpet. His heart pounded.
Irrational relief flowed down his arms and into his fingers, an itch for release and, five shoes later, he looked around, wild for more. The nearest missile was in his hand in a second, a tiffany table lamp— Gary’s lamp.
“Hold it! Hold it right there!” The sound of his own voice jarred him. He looked at Bob, took a shaky breath, lowered the lamp, placed it deliberately on the table and eyed the room. “I can’t do this.” He looked to Bob as he swept his arms wide, taking in his life. Then he eyed his backpack.
“I won’t.” The words were final, a decision. “If I’m not going to get any sleep here and I’m not going to fly, what’s the point?” He moved fast, bolstering the irrational decision with definite actions.
Within the hour, his pack sat rigid, stuffed full. A neat stack of papers waited by the garbage can that overflowed with discarded bits of life. He surveyed the room one last time. A tiny cord snaked out from under the couch and disappeared again. His cell phone. With no idea what he’d use it for, he wadded it up—charger, cord and handset—then wedged it into the pack.
“That’s it,” he muttered as a glint caught his attention. Bob eyed him from the inside of his bowl. “Except you.” Josh’s face split in a wide grin as he crossed the room and crouched to peer into the bowl. Bob swam away and peered back through the arch of his castle. “You thought I’d leave you here, faithless creature,” he grabbed the bowl and carried it into the kitchen to find a traveling home for Bob.
“What accommodations would suit you best?” He considered a red plastic pitcher. “Nope, too big. Gotta see where we’re going.” Crawling on all fours to look far back in the bottom shelf, he pulled out a mason jar. “Too fragile.” In the little cupboard over the refrigerator, tucked behind a pasta machine and three vases, he found a clear plastic tumbler. “Ah, just the thing.” Bob eyed him doubtfully from his new home as Josh reached in a drawer, pulled some string and secured the clear plastic travel mug to the pack frame. Then he froze.
It isn’t my mug. He shuddered. Stealing, that’s what it was. But, it had been in the back of just about everything, and he’d never actually seen anyone use it in all the time they’d been friends. Likely, he’d never even miss it. But that didn’t make it less than stealing. I struggled all my life over tiny breaches of integrity, bits of stealing. His buddies would “swipe” a bottle of gin from their Dad’s cupboard, or “borrow” their uncle’s car. It always gave him the creeps and he’d left them to it.
But, I can’t leave Bob here. I’ll just leave some money. Yeah, that’s it. He smiled and began the relocation process.
It’s going to be a little close. The castle fit, but it bumped both sides, with precious little water higher than the roof.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Josh muttered. “When we get where we’re going, I’ll buy you a new bowl.” Bob hid behind the castle while Josh secured the cover.
“Now, the hard part.” Josh pulled out his wallet and pulled out a five and a two ones. That left him with twenty. He put the bills on the kitchen counter.
He pulled a pad from the drawer, grabbed a pencil by the phone and poised over the paper.
“Sorry,” he wrote, then stopped, pencil hovering for inspiration on a second word. Nothing came. He crumpled the page, set it aside, started again.
“Wish I …” his mind went blank.
Four attempts later, he swore, and scrawled. “Thanks,” then threw down the pencil and straightened his back. After stuffing the wads of paper into the garbage, he reached into his pocket and plunked the key down on his lame excuse for a good-bye note.
After a testing tug on Bob’s sling, he hefted his pack, headed for the door, closed it behind him and didn’t look back.
* * *
On the far side of the continent, Mama and Mick hadn’t a care in the world until their hurricane hunt hit a bull’s eye. They’d towed their home on wheels from the northeast to southwest Florida where Hanna, a category four, was headed. They had front row seats.
“Hey,” Mama yelled from the far side of the dunes as she sauntered down the sloped sandy beach. Red high tops gave brilliance to the foam as she sloshed through the shore-break. A long, white braid stretched down her narrow back, brushing her long purple skirt. Retirement hadn’t slowed her down. In fact, she was flying.
“You’ve gotta come down, right now,” she lifted the skirt to feel the froth fizz her legs. “You’re missing everything.”
“Alright,” Mick bellowed from under the hood of the car and grinned to himself, “I’m on my way.” He’d just as soon adjust the timing as look at the damn sky, but when love called, he listened. After stuffing a cap on his spiky white hair, he wiped the worst off his hands on a rag, then finished the job on his overalls as he sauntered toward the sea.
“Look out there, will you. There’s nothing like it in the world.” Mama’s voice trailed off in awe. Mick took her hand, laced their fingers together and followed her gaze out over the roiling waves.
Beyond the wind-whipped breakers, white caps topped rows of heaving swells that stretched forever. The horizon blurred as the sea spewed into the sky, feeding vast thunderheads that swallowed the sun in their race for land. A curtain of rain crept toward land, muted the sea to gray and obliterated the world beyond. Mama’s gaze settled there, on the rain.
“Look, it’s coming right this way,” she wagged a finger at the sky. “We can’t miss it this time, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, she charged through shallows and threw herself in with a carefully aimed splash.
Mick, dripping wet, snarled at the place where she dove. “Get out of there!” he snapped when she bobbed into view. “What if there’s an undertow?” Flabbergasted, he took one step forward and fiddled with the bill of his hat. “I’m not swimming half-way to Cuba to drag your boney arse outta the soup.” He stalked to the edge of the outgoing wave, wagged a fist, then scooted backward as foam sloshed over his deck shoes.
“Don’t be a such a wuss.” Mama spared him one withering glance, dove and was gone.
“A wu—” He gaped, then sighed, strode toward the storm. “Oh, hell.” He glared past the next wave and dove in. He pounced, grabbed her when she surfaced, then hauled her against him for a smoldering kiss.
“Oh…” she pushed at her plastered hair and heaved out a breath, “you’re wet, sweet man.” She beamed up at him, eyes brimming with mischief, traced her finger along his narrow shoulders.
“Woman, you make me crazy.” He wagged her head with a tug on her braid, tilting her head to suit him as he gazed into her eyes. “I suppose that’s why I love you so much.” He trailed his lips along her forehead, then tucked her neatly under his arm and turned so they could watched the storm.
Half an hour later, it hit. Dusky turned to jagged night with lightning. Wind blew sand into their teeth. They were forced to seek refuge in their Airstream. They couldn’t have been happier.
Sheets of rain sluiced down the windows, flushing off the salty spray that sailed incessantly over the sea wall to batter their cozy home. They loved it.
“Mick,” Mama called from the bedroom as she toweled water from her hair, “switch on the TV and find us some weather.”
“Just a sec!” To be prepared, he lit the hurricane lantern that sat on the table, smiled at the sharp light shimmering through the blue lantern oil. He sat, tugged socks on with one hand, surfed via remote with the other. By the time he’d found weather, Mama had curled up next to him on the couch, leaning in for warmth. They clinked his and her mugs of steaming hot chocolate and settled in.
“…Hanna continues its northeasterly path at thirty miles per hour and is expected to come onshore at Cape Coral around midnight, tonight. As we reported earlier, all coastal areas have been evacuated and police are patrolling to assure public safety. Stay tuned to this station for hurricane updates and the latest on a tropical storm we’re tracking in the Atlantic.”
KNOCK! KNOCK!
Mama jerked, spilled hot chocolate on her lap—“damn.” She met Mick’s gaze as she got up for a rag, then eyed the door.
“Who would be crazy enough to come a-calling in a lightning storm,” he mused as he reached for the doorknob.
The rain that flew in shimmered on the far wall as Mick struggled to keep a hold on the door. Wind yanked it, straining against his grip as he peered out at a man with a flashlight.
He squinted in the sudden light, exaggerating the dark circles under his eyes. He squared his shoulders.
“Officer Stevens,” the man held out a badge. “This area is dangerous and has been evacuated. If you don’t move away from the beach I’m going to have to arrest you and confiscate your vehicle.” His gaze drifted down to Mama’s hot pink cat slippers with pipe cleaner whiskers, then to Mick’s flop-eared dogs with eyes hidden in matted brown curls. Stevens shook his head slowly as his shoulders drooped, then dragged a hand deliberately across a five o’clock shadow and gave a heavy sigh.
“Look folks, it’s dangerous here. See?” He aimed his flashlight at his boots, now ten inches underwater. “This parking lot drain is blocked, three-foot waves are coming over the seawall and the two of you could float right out to sea, not to mention those slippers.” He stabbed the flashlight at their feet and searched their faces for some hint of understanding.
“We don’t have equipment for that kind of rescue. Nobody does.” He stretched both arms to the side, then let them splat against his raincoat.
“Oh, officer, sir, we had no idea.” Mama leaned forward, covered her mouth with her hand and let her eyes go wide.
“Please, tell me you’ll move.” Stevens rubbed the back of his neck.
“No problem.” Mick nodded briskly, held up both hands, palm out. “I’ll get right on it.”
They sat on the edge of the bed watching through the window as the police car crept onto the road and stopped just beyond the parking lot.
“Oh, phooey,” Mama slapped her knee, “he’s watching.”
Resigned, Mick struggled into his wet clothes, then sloshed toward the truck with one arm up to fend off rain. After climbing into the truck, he listened to the engine purr and turned on the lights. Immediately, the police car inched into motion and the tail lights pulled out of sight.
Mick blew out a breath and considered his options. He wasn’t giving up, police or no police. In a flash of lightning, he noticed a thicket of trees on the far side of the parking lot. He hadn’t paid much attention, earlier. Just now, he grinned, it seemed like a miracle.
“Perfect,” he muttered, and dragged the trailer through the water, carefully navigating into the trees and out of sight. He’d just driven nine hours to see a damn hurricane and, by God, he’d see one ... even if it was pitch dark.
Chapter 2
Long past midnight, three days past the Oklahoma gas station, Cindy eased to a stop and arched her back like a cat. She pressed a fist into the small of her back as she strolled toward the ‘vacancy’ sign on the first of ten candy-colored cottages. She rolled one shoulder, then the other before stretching her neck. “Damn,” who would have guessed driving would hurt.
A rounded man with salt and pepper in his beard and a shiny bald spot looked up from the sports section to the tinkle of bells that hung on the office door. “How do,” he folded the paper and tucked it under the counter. His smile was real, “ya’ll need a bed?”
“And some quiet,” she forced a thin smile, “got any?”
“Quiet enough, I reckon,” he slid a clipboard her way, tugged a flower-topped pen out of the clip and straightened the cord that held it.
She shook out her fingers, took the pen that smelled of Aunt Elly’s dresser drawers.
“Been on the road long?” He tilted his head to see what she wrote, then nodded knowingly. “Seattle, yep, 2000 miles I betcha, if it’s one.” Both eyebrows wagged at the thought.
“Feel like I drove from Pluto.” His laugh shimmered in the room and she felt her own smile go real.
“I hear it rains a lot out there,” he winked when she looked up from the paper, “Pluto, that is.” He pointed skyward, indicating outer space.
“Every single day, so the natives say,” she put the pen down, nudged the clipboard back, “keeps tourists away, off to California and Hawaii.”
“What brings you so far east?” His brow furrowed as he pulled the paper from the clipboard.
“Roads pointed that way, I guess.” She opened her bag, took out a credit card. “From the air, the land looks bright and interesting, but the roads are so straight and flat it took everything I had just to stay awake.”
“Never been west, myself,” he swiped the card, passed it back.
“Haven’t slept in days for all the noise in the RV parks.” She leaned heavily on the counter, “Didn’t expect that.”
“I know ’bout that. The wife and I drove all up and down the coast a couple summers back and woke every dang morning to someone’s babe wanting breakfast.” With one quick nod, he passed her the slip and the secure daisy.
“I could sleep standing right here,” she had to focus to sign her name without screwing it up.
“Visiting family, or just seeing the sights?”
“Neither,” he didn’t look dangerous, but handing out information seemed like a bad idea. “Really. I’m heading south, where it’s warm.”
“Beautiful down in Florida this time of year,” he handed her a copy. “It’s already full blown spring, even this early in March. You ought to stop in St. Augustine. It’s a quiet place. Has an RV park right by the highway. What’s the name of that town?” He scratched his bald spot thoughtfully, “Elkton, that’s the exit, then head toward the ocean. Can’t miss it.”
Cindy watched him turn away, thinking he moved as if he was standing in a tub of maple syrup. He reached up deliberately, selecting a pink circle from the hooks on the wall and turned back. She guessed she could have jogged to her trailer and back while he did that one turn.
“Cottage One, pink one at the end,” he tilted his head to the side, “best bed in all the units. Put it in new last Fall,” and handed her the key.
“You run this place all by yourself?” she found she didn’t want to be alone, suddenly.
“My Wife keeps the counter in the daytime, I do evenings. Young gal down the way comes in to clean up after folks.” He settled onto the stool behind him, let his shoulders droop lazily.
“Must be exciting to see so many different kinds of people come and go,” she prodded.
“We think so,” he nodded slowly, “but I’ve lived here all my life. My Daddy started building those little cottages on Grandpa’s plantation road when I was a little slip, barely five years old. He’d put up another one every year, all the while they was putting the highway in. Last one got painted all white in 1962, the year the four-lane got done the whole way from up in New York to the southern tip of Key West.”
“Wow,” curious now, she straightened, envy curled at her back. “I bet that changed life around here?” He had roots, here, deep ones. She didn’t even have a real home.
“Oh,” his eyes went glassy as he looked back in time, “I’d say so. Gas stations popped up, then a couple of tourist stores, hotels and restaurants after a while. School had to be rebuilt, bigger ones.”
“Did you like that,” she wondered out loud, “or was it a drag?”
“I had more buddies to play with, but mostly life was the same. I still hunted frogs down in the bog and rode my bike along the old mill road.” His eyes twinkled. “It brought Lizzy here, my wife, when her Momma moved to town and opened a grocery store.”
“You married your childhood sweetheart?” Cindy couldn’t hold back a grin.
“Told her the day I met her, ‘you’re gonna marry me someday,’” he laughed, let his head roll back and slapped his knee. “She punched me, right in the stomach, called me a brat and ran off to play with the girls. I knew it had to be true love.”
She thought of Jeremy, her own brush with true love. He’d loved her, she thought with a mental sneer, until he really got to know her, then he’d left ... Absently, she rubbed her neck, wishing the ache away. She didn’t believe in true love any more, at least not for her—too dangerous.
The room hummed and she realized she was staring off at nothing. His eyes were sympathetic when she turned back to him. In the awkward silence that followed, her stomach growled and made them both laugh.
“Can I get breakfast around here?” She shifted to a brisk tone, squared her shoulders.
“On the corner,” he jerked a thumb over one shoulder, “Harry’s Diner, best in the state. Harry’s my uncle.” He stood, smiled sheepishly and shuffled, “down home cooking, biscuits and sausage gravy, grits, anything you want. Breakfast is served anytime, day or night.”
“Grits?” She cocked her head, lifted one brow.
A quick grin split his face. “You’re in for a treat, girl. Tell ’em Johnny sent you and to fix you up with some grits.” His eyes sparked with delight.
“I’ll do that, in the morning.” She turned, called back over her shoulder, “Thanks.”
“Sleep good, ya hear,” he spoke into the sports section he’d already resumed reading.
“Hmmm. Shower, sleep.” She mumbled as she dragged the wheeled bag over the gravel and into Cottage One, the pink one. The walls and doors, inside and out, were pale pink with hot pink trim. The bedspread and curtains were covered with coral, fuchsia and salmon flowers that danced in perfect diagonal rows. At the bedside, the white lampshade held a lace-edged baby-pink heart. She thought of Candyland and grinned like a kid.
Absently, she bolted the door, turned the heater to maximum, plunked into a chair and snored. Nothing hindered the easy slide into dreams of castles and cold.
Deep sleep swallowed her whole, leaving her dead still until a masculine voice pierced the din of festivities in the courtyard around her. Or was it a pink cottage. “You carry Tommy. I’ll get the bags.” Her mind stumbled, flailed for a hold as it sorted mingled images of two worlds, dreams and reality.
Cindy scowled down at her laced blue skirts, wondered why she’d never met Tommy among the nobility surrounding her in the chilled, cobblestone courtyard.
“I need the two red bags and the black one with wheels,” a female voice, in a stage whisper, carried as if from two feet away.
Confused, she deliberately pushed herself toward the pink cottage. The toasty-warm room displaced the chilly courtyard as the overstuffed chair become solid under her arms. She blinked awake and stared through the dark.